


'Cause what if I never break?

by LorenIndra



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:07:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29547681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LorenIndra/pseuds/LorenIndra
Summary: Rhys opened a Vault – and paid for it. Now, if he wants to save his friends, he has to work for Jack and help the man to bring down the Crimson Raiders from the inside. Too pity Jack does not know that two can play this game.AU set in Borderlands 2.
Relationships: Handsome Jack/Rhys (Borderlands)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	1. I'm sorry that you never made it

**Author's Note:**

> WIP, so something (everything?) may change in the future. Also rating is for the future chapters. 
> 
> I do not own original stories/characters/songs i use as chapter titles

_We are responsible for those who kill us, because they are going to live with that._

_Rhys just wishes someone had told him that before it all started._

_He counts to three, breathes out – and pulls the trigger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Wires by The Neighbourhood


	2. The alternative to real world

Rhys closes his eyes and sees borderless field, covered with green grass; something one won’t find on Pandora or, perhaps, in the whole universe; but in Rhys’ imagination, such a place was born a long time ago, to help him survive another day. He tries a little harder, shutting his eyelids ever so tight – and he almost can feel the softest wind caressing his skin and smell the nicest aroma from the wild flowers. The sky is so bright it hurts to look at it and the sun’s rays unkindly – but welcomingly – kiss his bared shoulders. He inhales fresh air, as deeply as his lungs allow, and realizes he has never been so content, so calm and free in his life.

A scream tears Rhys away from the fantasy. Just like that, a beautiful vision is gone and replaced by a cracked ceiling. Sometimes, he counts those cracks. Their number is different every time, but, at least, it’s entertaining.

An invisible intruder continues yelling, but Rhys shuts his eyes again anyway. It is hard to focus like this, when foreign sound interrupts his quiet rapture, so he imagines something that involves screaming instead. There was plenty of it in the Hollow Point. Drunkards, enraged – or, sometimes, overjoyed – after one too many drinks; junkies, calling to the unseen and mostly non-existent goddess, looking for another dose, demanding it, begging for it, like their prayers will be answered if the cry loud enough; lovers, who can’t control themselves in their climaxes, completely erasing other people around them from their world’s picture. He sees it all too vivid, for his own good. Sounds, smells, dark streets, cool humidity of the cave. A memory he has tried so hard to suppress replaces his abstract thought, so very uninvitingly, and, as much as it hurts, it also makes his heart to beat faster.

He is sitting in the Purple Scag (still a shithole, even nostalgia can’t make it better, but his chest tightens all the same), drinking what is supposed to be beer, but strongly reminds of piss, bathing in countless voices around him, in the ambience of life itself.

Corners of his mouth twitch upward, both in memory and in reality. He smiled a lot that night.

Fiona is there, so is Sasha – two pairs of captivating green eyes locked on him. Girls are laughing at his jokes, but mostly pretending that everything he says is funny. If it was a normal day, they would stare at Rhys like he is an idiot – and they would be right, of course. But tonight is a very special occasion. Tonight, they are celebrating. They opened the Vault (Rhys shivers; after all this time, after everything what happened, the mere thought of it still feels so unacceptably good) – and survived to tell a story. Tomorrow, they will wake up in another world, where they don’t need to steal and lie to make a living. They will move to somewhere nice, probably will leave Pandora for good.

Rhys looks at Vaughn at his right; the man is too shocked by their success to participate in the celebration, preferring to have a very private conversation with his mug instead. Rhys knows he cannot actually touch him, but if he could – if it was not just a pathetic memory – he would elbow Vaughn under the ribs, just to get him out of prostration.  
But for a second, he can feel (and it’s too real) – a hot hand on his shoulder, burning through his clothes. Rhys turns his head to see August, smiling at him. A tired smile; Rhys knows what is hidden behind it, because he has seen the same look on his own face in every reflecting surface for a year. Rhys knows, probably understands it better than any of his friends, that their victory was not at all easy. They sacrificed so much, were so patient – to get where they are now – and for the first time in their lives, it all paid up.

He glances over his friend one more time, love and guilt, and _loss_ , wash over his whole body. His imagination is strong, but his memory fails him, as he realizes one important detail is missing from the picture. Rhys can hear the white noise around them – but his friends’ voices don’t reach him. Because memory is a bitch, and voice is the first thing a person forgets. And real Rhys, the one who lies in the cold cell, is ready to sacrifice again – even more this time – to hear Fiona’s judging tone when she criticizes him. To hear Sasha’s gentle giggling and Vaughn’s nervous rumbling. To feel August’s husky whisper against his neck.

Too bad Rhys does not have anything to give for that.

The first memory opens the door to another one. It takes him from his happy place to the place which devoured the part of his body and the entirety of his freedom. He is lucky he does not remember it well. There is screaming again – not the hedonistic kind, but horrifying, deafening cry. It’s not his; Rhys in so much pain he can’t scream anymore. He is trying to keep his eyes away from his arm – or from what was his arm, anyway. Real Rhys’ shoulder is aching, reacting to this episode; a phantom pain, but no less serious.

Sasha’s face appears before him and she is screaming, too. He can tell she is worried, but pain has already started to wrap him in its sweet dizziness. She slaps him – and for a moment, he is sober again; it sobers real Rhys too, so much he can almost hear Sasha from his fantasy; it’s still sounds like from underwater, but every time her lips move, he hears her better and better.

Sasha opens her mouth again, blood liking from its corner, and she says…

“Attention!”

The illusion is gone again and replaced with black nothingness. Not a single announcement has broken silence in this place since he got there, but it damn right chose the best timing.

“Today is a glorious day!”

Rhys sits on the bench and tries to listen to the announcement through his own uneven breathing. Why the girl who reads the text is so cheerful? Maybe she is not there. Maybe she works from a nice place, three planets away from Pandora, three lives away from being a miserable scum left to rot in this hell where time has stopped.

“Handsome Jack himself are going to visit us today!”

Instantly, another picture pops up in Rhys’ head. He, somehow, manages to break free from his cell and runs into Handsome Jack. He has a gun – looted it from the guard he knocked out just a moment ago – and he does not care about consequences, so he shoots Jack right in his surprised face. It’s not something he would do lightly. He has never been a violent person, but prison changes people.

“He has big plans for some of you! I am so jealous!”

Rhys shakes his head. He would gladly swap their places, would agree to live a happy, ignorant life of a corporate bitch – anything to get out of here.

“Maybe it’s amnesty, who knows!”

Because amnesty sounds so like Handsome Jack. His head hurts from her voice, from the lack of oxygen in a small room. Hysteria clutches to Rhys’ throat from the inside, but he only chuckles, grimly. Maybe Jack finally decided to kill him – well, all prisoners he keeps there, because Rhys is not that special. But there are fates worse than death – it’s a cliché, but it’s also the truth. Rhys experienced that firsthand.

He curls on the bench. If he is lucky enough, he won’t wake up when Jack comes. Maybe he will even have a luxury to die in his sleep. Not many are that lucky on Pandora.

Rhys closes his eyes, praying for his mind to return him to the borderless field.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from The Alternative by IAMX


	3. Darkness at the door to greet me

Rhys hears Jack’s voice long before he sees the man. Mocking remarks, bouncing off the prison’s walls, pierce his dreamless slumber. Rhys does not get up; in fact, he does not acknowledge the man’s inevitable arriving in any way.

Why bother? Is there anything he can change? Looking your fear in the eyes just does not work for him. And he is afraid of death, of course, his previous miserable bravado disappeared. But behind this fear, there is something else.

Anger.

He can put up a fight, of course. Maybe he will even scratch Jack before he dies. But he will die anyway, may as well have some dignity in how he dies.

His thoughts stop at the world, preventing him from making any scenarios. Rhys shivers on his bench, hoping the agony of waiting is the worst part.

Rhys is a coward. Has always been, and that fact has kept him alive until this moment. He also is – or once was – a con artist. _Dignity_ does not even exist in his world. But the novelty of the situation confuses him; he just does not know how to deal with it. He is not above admitting that he begged for his life, more than once; but it is different with Jack. Jack took _everything_ from him, so he would rather spit in his face.

Jack can kill him painlessly. Mercifully. Or the man can torture him, bleed Rhys out, not letting him to die, until Jack is bored or satisfied. From what Rhys has heard of Jack, he is capable of much worse; but Rhys is not particularly inclined to imagine his own suffering.

This is funny how, despite the fear of death, the fear of pain is more persistent.

That’s why ignoring Jack seems like a good idea; the only way to express conflicting feelings inside him. It’s a compromise between his resentment and his dread.

After what seems like a life time, steps cease outside his cell, interrupting his thoughts. It’s time, then.

“Close the cage after me,” Jack says to someone, most likely guards. Jack is a coward too, then (this similarity makes Rhys sick); can’t even kill a defenceless man without security.

The next second the air is different. Less familiar, less sterile. Jack approaches him confidently, steadily, like he is sure Rhys won’t try to rip his throat off if given a chance.

“Wakey-wakey, Rhysie.”

No one has addressed Rhys in _ages_ and his breath hitches involuntarily, giving him away. He looks at Jack standing above him and quickly sits on the bench, not wanting to be in more vulnerable position than he already is.

Jack is seemingly unarmed. He has no need to bloody his own hands; behind the transparent orange wall, the group of guards is patiently waiting for Jack’s command.

“I know what you are thinking,” Jack traces Rhys’ gaze to the guards and back, shaking his head. “They are faster than you.”

Rhys does not react, but he does clench his hand into a fist. It could be a symbol of struggle, of defiance, of not giving up; right now, the only thing Rhys feels, despite his efforts, is defeat. That bullshit he brainwashed himself with – the compromise – which was so tempting in his mind, turned out to be completely useless in reality. He wants to attack, but does not feel provoked enough; not _strong_ enough. Truest rage could imbue him better than sun light and vitamins he has been lacking for god knows how long; it could strip him off his cowardness. But the only thing he feels right now is cold repulsion and fear.

“I see you are chatty today.”

 _Fuck you_ , Rhys does not say and hates himself for not saying it.

“Just listen, then. I have a deal for you. Need you to do some job.”

This is very hard to process. Maybe Rhys is still sleeping. He digs his fingernails into his palm until it hurts, but does not wake up. An already familiar hysteria blooms in Rhys’ chest. If it’s not a dream, then it is a dream-like reality, a surrealist movie when he is a main character.

It seems, he is not going to die right now, which returns him to the mindset where some things are much worse than death.

“Not interested,” somebody – not him, because _that_ cannot be his voice - answers the question that has never been asked. He knows what Jack will say the moment he looks in his eyes.

It feels like a huge mistake. Rhys has heard predators can see right through you.

“You see, it’s not a real deal. It’s me telling you what to do and you doing it.”

Rhys turns his head away and Jack sighs, impatiently.

“Remember your merry bunch of misfits?..”

How dares Jack bring them into this conversation? The man continues talking, but Rhys can’t hear him; the mere mentioning of Rhys’ friends finally breaks something inside him, leaves him without his unbothered façade. He would never do something like this in normal situation. But nothing about this is normal, so he lashes out at Jack, instantly going for the man’s face, not caring anymore that even if he still had two hands, if he still had two eyes, there would never be a fair fight between them. Jack is faster, of course; he catches Rhys’ wrist and twists it behind his back, spinning the man around. Two sharp, painful jabs, one by one, strike the back of Rhys’ knees, making him fall on them.

“That’s the guy who stole my Vault; started to think it’s a wrong cell,” Jack sounds pleased. “Where were we? Ah, you and your friends, pumpkin - you took what didn’t belong to you. Not angry anymore. Even got an idea how you can make it up to me, Rhys.”

He does not really register what Jack is saying; his heart is beating too fast, even from such a short exercise, drowning the man’s voice and the sound of his own ragged breath. He struggles against Jack’s grip, knowing it won’t do anything.

But how good it feels to fight instead of simply accepting fate.

“Will you behave if I let you go?” Rhys violently shakes his head. “Noted,” Jack chuckles, perhaps surprised by Rhys’ misplaced sincerity. “So, about that deal…”

“Told you, I’m not interested,” he twitches one more time and Jack raises Rhys' wrist almost up to his shoulder, making his joints sing an unhappy song.

“Has anyone told you it’s rude to interrupt? Especially when your life depends on the guy you’re interrupting.”

“Why don’t you kill me and see whose life depends on whose?”

“How about your friends’ lives, Rhysie? When I kill them, I’ll sure they know they have to die because you so unwisely rejected my offer.”

 _They are still alive_ , Rhys realizes only now. It’s a good thing, but it gives Jack leverage, because the man obviously keeps them in prison, just like he keeps Rhys.

He opens his mouth, to say something that will hurt Jack as much as his words hurt Rhys, but instantly closes it; he knows nothing about Jack – and he it’s dangerous to cross him right now, when he made it clear it’s not only Rhys’ life that is at stake here.

“How much more are you going to take from me?” Rhys breathes out miserably, barely audible, instead.

“ _I_ am not going to take anything from you, Rhys. It’s your call,” Jack pauses, clearly waiting for him to speak. Rhys does not. “I get it, you think you were wronged. By me, of all people. But you see, it was the other way around. As I said, I’m not mad,” Jack’s voice is soft, soothing, but there is nothing kind behind it. Like Rhys is a cow who refuses to go willingly in the butcher’s hands. “Even made you such a good deal.”

“Maybe your _deal_ is not as good as you thought,” Rhys bites on the inside of his cheek when the words leave his mouth.

“Oh, but it is. I bet your friends would hate to die.”

“My friends would hate it if I agree to whatever you are offering right now,” Rhys spits out. This is a lie. His friends would very much love to stay alive. And he is almost ready to accept Jack’s offer, but it seems that, after all, he has some dignity left.

“I want something out of this deal,” Rhys surprises himself.

“Are you… bargaining?” Jack’s tone sounds incredulous. Maybe he surprises Jack as well. “Ever considered working for Hyperion? In another life, I could use someone as nuts as you. ‘K, what do you want? Your freedom?”

Jack is not serious. He is toying with Rhys, because the thought that Rhys can be so arrogant in this situation amuses him. Which means Jack underestimates Rhys; or they probably underestimate each other.

“ _Their_ freedom. Release two of them now and two after the job is done.”

Because it was his idea to open the Vault. Sasha, Fiona, August and Vaughn – they would still be miserable, but free. He owes them that much.

“Can’t do, pumpkin,” Jack says. “But I can let all of them go after, if you won’t screw me over.”

Rhys turns his head to the side, but the expression on Jack’s face is unreadable. And anyway, he can be sincere now, but change his mind later.

Rhys will find another way to help them; he just needs to get out of here.

“Of course, I’ll kill them if something goes wrong. I can even start killing them right now, if you…”

“And if I say yes, what’s then? What do you want?”

“Rhys, what did I say ‘bout interrupting? Seriously, don’t do that again,” the grip on Rhys’ wrist tightens. “I won’t make you kill children or anything like that,” Rhys can think of million things that are so much worse than killing children, but he is not going to say that out loud. Better not to give Jack ideas.

“Any specifics?”

“Ah-ah. Need to say yes first.”

“Why? Is it classified? Going to make me to sign the contract?”

“Funny. Rhysie, c’mon, I don’t have all day. If you don’t want to, just say so. No pressure. Don’t make me wait tho, I have four people to kill.”

This is the easiest and the hardest decision in his life.

“Fine.” Rhys says through gritted teeth.

“It’s a yes?” he asks like he did not expect Rhys to agree so easily after not giving in for so long.

“Yes.”

“Great,” Jack releases him so suddenly that Rhys barely catches himself before he falls forward. “But first things first. You can’t work for me when you’re so… incomplete.”

“Whose fault is that?” He turns around to face Jack. It’s only now he notices a persistent numbness in his legs, which won’t let him to stand up at least gracefully, so he stays on the floor.

“Yours.” Jack replies matter of factly. “But you see this dude in the white robe? With I-know-it-all look?” Rhys gaze involuntarily darts to a young man in a white robe, surrounded by guards. Rhys did not notice him before. He seems distressed, scared even, and Rhys wonders if Jack _persuaded_ him into doing whatever he is about to do as well – or if he is just happy to see Jack. “He is here to help you. We have some new tech. Is not Hyperion, of course, but almost as good as ours,” Jack’s eyes linger on Rhys’ face and then, down, to his shoulder – and, for a second, Rhys feels a phantom pain, which hits even worse than before, probably because the reason why he lost his eye and his arm is standing right next to him.

Jack makes a ring with his fingers at the crowd outside the cell and orange field disappears, filling the room with a new kind of air once more. Now it smells like drugs and, very vaguely, like blood.

“Don’t stand up,” Jack says, though Rhys is not going to. “Those honourable men will transport you.”

Jack must get off on his humiliation, but Rhys does not protest. He also does not resist when the man in white robe comes closer, holding a syringe in his hand. Rhys remains indifferent when the man gives him a shot; yellow, burning liquid runs through his veins. It’s stings, but he can imagine how much more painful a surgery can be without it.

His body goes soft. He cannot focus anymore; the world before his eyes is blurry. Rhys misses the moment when all his feelings cease to exist and lets his conscious blissfully drift in nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from Darkness at the Door by Editors.


	4. Pick a rose and hide my face

“No,” Rhys says hysterically, making Jack’s eyebrow arch in amusement; does Jack even know what _no_ means? “Go fuck yourself, Jack,” he knows he should stop himself, but painkillers just make him very heedless. 

“Pumpkin, imagine how many people in the world can talk to me like that,” Jack says light-heartedly, but it is clearly a threat.

“Don’t want, don’t care.”

“Thought you decided to cooperate.”

“I did not sign up for _torture_ ,” Rhys bites out.

The flashes of _that_ surgery still haunt Rhys in his dreams, even though he is not supposed to remember anything at all. He does – or he thinks he does, because he can feel how painful it was, to be cut alive. Nerves are singing in the red symphony; the place where cold metal is being attached to his arm feels like a battlefield; he is floating in the sweet, sick dizziness; hot wetness is flowing down his temples, making his hair sticky; warm hand touches his almost deadly-cold sweaty forehead; whenever he opens his eyes, he sees Jack’s face. Somewhere in between, the feeling of gratitude, totally misplaced and inappropriate, overflows him. 

But none of that has ever happened. Or has it?

“Rhys, I have not idea what are you talking about, but if there anything you need, just tell me.”

Maybe Rhys did made all of that up. Because Jack sounds genuinely puzzled – and incredibly sincere in his offer. Like he is not a monster Rhys thinks he is.

What could he even say in this situation? _I think I was not asleep that time when you decided to sew a prosthetic arm to my shoulder_? That sounds ridiculous.

But it was all too real; atrociously so.

“Don’t you like your new hand?”

Rhys liked his previous one. He liked his previous one very, very much. But Jack ripped it off nonetheless, caring little for Rhys’ opinion.

That’s not the point, though.

“This one will be even better. C’mon, look at that cutie,” Jack looks down on this… thing between them. It is a wedding ring box; a cruel mockery Jack brough him five minutes ago. A single prosthetic blue eye with wires attached to it stares at Rhys pathetically, unblinkingly; a sad puppy, only without the puppy. Like he is blaming Rhys for awkwardly dropping the box on the bed the moment he opened it, as if it burned his hand.

“It’s not like I’m asking, y’know?”

Rhys hesitates. It’s hard to even imagine what he will feel if he wakes up in the middle of that procedure. But something tells him his mind won’t be so merciful as it is now; simply because it won’t be able to hide this level of agony.

“I want more drugs,” Rhys chews on his lower lip; he does not know how much they gave to him last time, but clearly it was not enough.

“Noted.”

Rhys can appreciate that Jack does not ask. Because if he did, Rhys would have to confront him in one way or another – or dodge the question, which would be suspicious; he already reacted so inconsiderately rashly a moment ago. He feels his shoulders relax and shakes his head, trying to get rid of a familiar tingle of gratitude.

“Anyway, be ready in a half an hour,” Jack trails off, before the weight of silence and his own stupid thoughts would make Rhys say something he would regrate later. Jack stands up and moves towards the door.

“Why is it blue?” Rhys asks, when Jack crosses the threshold with one foot. The man turns his head over the shoulder, smirking.

“So you want forget about me, princess,” Jack winks, slowly closing the door, leaving Rhys with a sad, lonely eye, still judgingly staring at him.

“Fuck you too,” he says to the eye, dispassionately, hastily closing the box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from The Scale by Interpol


	5. The privileged prick got to make us his bitches

A barren desert outside of the window. It Rhys’ his last day here, on this side of a thin glass. He can almost feel those unkind sun rays on his face. One evil plan stands between him and – alas, relative, but nevertheless – freedom.

After torturing Rhys for two weeks, Jack has finally decided the first stage of his suffering was over. Although his staying in this room, white, clean and so very bright, likely already far away from his jail has not always been bad. Rhys feels a lot stronger now, thanks to the nutritious ratio and more injections of vitamin D that seemed necessary. His metal hand feels almost like it has always been there; not enough to forget it actually has not - but better than not having one at all anyway.

He still shudders when he looks in the mirror, though. Like someone else, who happens to have his face, stares back at him.

At least, he does not have weird dreams anymore; now, he just wakes up in the middle of the night, screaming – but he can’t really tell why, because his _memories_ slowly fade.

“So, here is the plan.” Comes the voice from behind. Rhys turns around, taking off his forehead from the coolness of the window. Jack is lying on his bed, which he immediately occupied the moment he entered the room.

Rhys tries very hard to focus on Jack’s words; he has become accustomed to painkillers the man in white robe has been giving him, so his mind is pleasantly fuzzy.

“You know the Crimson Raiders?”

Rhys shakes his head. He was quite educated in local fauna before he got imprisoned; apparently, a lot has changed since.

“There are those guys who call themselves a resistance. Bandits, if you ask me. Unfortunately, their base is protected, so I can’t just send my men. Or destroy it from Helios.” Jack sounds annoyed, yes, but there is a hint of admiration in his voice. It also can be just a projection of Rhys’ feelings, because he, undoubtably, admires those guys, whoever they are.

“You want me to go there and what, just kill them all?” The mere thought scares Rhys, but he is even more scared of what Jack would do with his friends if he does not comply.

“I want you to finish listening.”

Rhys crosses his arms over his chest.

“I need a scalpel, not a butcher knife. You’ll be my agent inside. Following so far?”

Rhys clenches his teeth, making his temples hurt from the tension. It has nothing to do with the question. Pain helps him to concentrate, because every new word makes him closer to the sea of drug induced bliss he desperately wants to drown in.

But Jack sounds surprisingly reasonable. It’s not his method, too; from what Rhys has heard of him – from what he experienced with Jack – the man is more of a _kill them all_ kind of a guy. A solid plan, because no one will expect Jack to act subtly.

Although, there is still one problem which can potentially ruin everything.

Maybe Jack’s plan is not _that_ solid after all.

“Why do you think they will trust me?”

“Always forget you spent the last year in prison.” Jack rolls his eyes dramatically. “Other bandits think you opened a Vault. Which makes you a legend. Apparently, I didn’t try hard enough, sweeping your name under the rug, but it worked out just fine.”

 _Huh_. It’s flattering, actually – to hear that people _outside_ did not forget about him. Fame was not his goal, but he can’t deny it feels somewhat good. But Rhys does not really buy it; still too much room for fucking things up.

And - this is painful to admit - but it is in his best interests for Jack to succeed. Even for a time being.

“They also think you are dead, so make up some solid story.”

That complicates everything even more.

“You sure you thought it through?” Rhys asks, slowly.

“Didn’t ask for your opinion. ‘Sides, it’s the first step. Infiltrate, gather whichever intel you can, report.”

“That’s all?”

Jack sighs, tiredly.

“Can’t tell you everything yet, in case you decide to screw me over after all.”

There is some history behind Jack’s being so paranoid, this one is clear; but even Rhys, with his mind clouded with drugs, does not dare to ask.

“How do I contact you?” Rhys changes the topic ever so smoothly, but Jack does not seem to care.

“You find anything useful, you message me. Send an emoji or something. I’ll set up a meeting. Have added my contact to your ECHO eye; don’t use our line for anything aside that.”

“You just send me coordinates? That simple?”

“Encrypted coordinates.”

“How do I decrypt them?” Rhys raises an eyebrow.

“Everything you need is already there.” Jack taps on his temple and smiles. _How enigmatic_. “So, I think that’s all…”

“Wait,” Rhys stops him. “My friends.”

“Ah, yeah, about that.” Jack lips curve into unpleasant downside smile. “As I _promised_ you, I’ll free them when the job is done.”

“And if I fail?”

“Well, don’t.”

“Easy for you to say.” He feels the metal hand squeezes tightly on his forearm against his will. “What happens if I fail?”

“I’ll kill them, of course. Maybe if you’re alive, I’ll let you watch.”

That sobers Rhys up a little.

“I need to see them. To know they are still alive.”

“Maybe, if you are a good boy.” Jack averts his eyes, which is enough to understand he does not seriously consider letting Rhys to do it. But Rhys does not argue; he is already not in the best position, even if Jack has been quite _benevolent_ so far. “More questions?”

Rhys counts to three, slowly blinking several times.

“What do I do now?” he finally asks.

“Now, we get you on the train.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from Big Man by IAMX


	6. The sky's getting white

It’s warm.

_How very strange_ , Rhys thinks distantly. It does not bother him. He also fails to see the inconsistency between his body, lying in the pure whiteness and his desire to rip all his clothes off.

It must have been what sheer happiness feels like. Just being there, in this state. No worries. No pain. Nothing. Just persistent heat and sweet tiredness. Like he is one step from something bigger than himself and it’s time to rest. Just for an endless moment.

His prosthetic arm reaches to the collar of his shirt. The first button gives in easily. Such a great idea. He does not even need to command his body to do that.

Snowflakes that touch his skin on the normal arm are not melting, but Rhys is strangely at peace with that. He watches, lying on his side, how his hand slowly hides underneath a thin crust of snow.

Rhys knows it has to melt, but he does not care, cannot bring himself to care. He presses his cheek to the unyielding surface beneath it, hard enough to hurt; but it does not. The whole world has become the softest bed and he is devoured by it, absorbed by the icy mattress and covered with the snowy blanket.

He has to go, he knows he has to; Rhys vaguely remembers that he is the man on a mission. But those thoughts – they are from another life, where things - even the safest ones - were shaped in a very cruel form. It was a deadly, dangerous world. Unlike here, where even the death’s embrace feels like the lover’s gentle caress.

It’s not happiness, then; it’s death. Rhys is dying. But he is not afraid anymore. If someone told him death felt like that, he would sacrifice his miserable life a long time ago.

Better late than never; besides, it’s never late to die. He closes his eyes but whiteness does not go away. A pure delight washes over him and…

An annoying, unnatural voice tears him away from his blissful quiet rapture. It pierces through the blizzard, unkindly, brutally and Rhys curses under his breath, opening his eyes again, but seeing nothing except endless snow.

“Great! Another dead Vault Hunter! Handsome Jack’s been busy!”

His heaven is gone. Rhys flinches violently, shaking off the snowy blanket; he scratches his cheek with already unwelcoming ice – and feels every bone in his stupid, traitorous body. He slowly stands up through the pain, staggering with the blizzard; his vision goes black around the edges – all-consuming darkness instead of reviving blinding white.

“Wait! You are not dead!”

Rhys damn wishes he was. Dull pain in his whole body becomes sharp in different parts. His chest hurts, making it almost impossible to breathe. The seam between his body and the prosthetic hand is on fire; his legs are wobbly, trying to give up from his own weight and the wind.

“Thanks for noticing,” Rhys croaks at last, not sure who is he talking to. They seemed so close when he was lying on the ground and yet he sees nothing before him.

“And who will you be?” The voice is lauder now, almost mercilessly so.

_Many things_ , Rhys thinks, baffled by a deep, existential question.

“Your name?” Elaborates an invisible stranger, clearly standing right in front of Rhys. He lowers his gaze.

He must have hurt his head pretty badly too, because the CL4P-TP unit is standing before him, making catatonic gestures with his arms, like it is dancing. Rhys is clearly hallucinating; or, he died after all and went straight to hell, where the gatekeeper is a small, yellow robot. Whose whole line was completely eliminated.

“Rhys.” He decides to humour a hallucination.

“You don’t look like a Vault Hunter.”

A long time ago, Rhys saw colourful cockroaches and melting stones in his hallucinations. Colourful cockroaches were weird; but not nearly as weird as a robot, scouting for Vault Hunters’ bodies out in the wilderness.

“Why?”

“Too fancy. Look at that arm. Vault Hunters are all cheap scum.”

“You know that how?” Rhys barely finishes before coughing violently. Several red drops fall to his feet, staining the innocent whiteness of the snow. _Just great_.

“This place is a dumpster for everything Jack kills!” The robot makes a broad gesture, demonstrating his lands as if he is a proud lord. Rhys, of course, cannot see anything beyond his arm reach. “And he kills a lot of Vault Hunters.”

“Ever heard of The Vault of the Traveler?”

“Duh. The guys that opened it are legends.”

Jack did not lie. It feels good, to be called that, even if it does not matter anymore.

Rhys lifts one eyebrow.

“No way!” And here he thought the robot’s voice could not get any louder. “You are the Rhys? Pretty NPC name though, you should consider changing it for something more badass.”

Rhys huffs and his ribs protest instantly.

“Wait a second, you and your friends – you are supposed to be dead!”

He is, but it seems like it’s not the time yet. The robot’s words trigger one single memory; Jack, the deal, his friends. Rhys has no idea where he is, but he ought to find the way out if he does not want robot’s words to become his new reality.

Besides, there is a persistent feeling that this dialogue is repeating itself – although Rhys barely can remember what happened a second ago. The sharp frost feeds on his ability to concentrate.

“Listen,” He says, hesitantly. “Are you real?” He can’t believe he asks that of the robot, but it as well might be his last chance; providing it _is_ real, of course.

“I most certainly am!” It sounds very pleased with that fact. “But you are so pale, it looks like you may become not real very soon! And here I thought you would be my ticket to Sanctuary!”

Rhys feels exactly as he looks, apparently. It becomes harder to breathe with every exhale.

“Show me the way and I’ll take you there,” he blurts out hastily.

“If you are sure! Follow me, then!”

Rhys takes one step and, as the world goes completely black, falls into the stinging snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from I'll Still Destroy You by The National

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> The title of the work is from Lights by Interpol


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